Beads, Flowers, Freedom, Happiness
by mystifyre
Summary: Each member of the Tribe came from different backgrounds and went through different experiences, all of which would shape their lives. But one thing they all shared was the desire for peace, freedom and happiness.
1. Sheila

**Title:** Beads, Flowers, Freedom, Happiness

**Fandom:** 2009 revival of Hair, the musical

**Rating:** PG-13, mostly for angst

**Word Count:** 1,543

**Author Note: So, this fanfic sprung from an idea I had a while back now and one that has been niggling away at me since, so it had to be written! I aim to tell the background stories of several members of the Tribe and how they each came to join the group of hippies. Enjoy!**

"Sheila! Be ready for dinner in ten minutes!"

The young girl sighed in response to her mother's reminder, glancing forlornly out of her window from her bed, where she had surrounded herself with her impressive collection of Madame Alexander dolls. She was currently in the process of adjusting the miniature gold crown on Sleeping Beauty's head and smoothing down her red satin gown.

"Did princesses get forced down to dinner with their father's guests?" the girl asked, looking into the doll's vacant brown eyes.

Remaining silent, Sleeping Beauty simply gazed back impassively. As she carefully propped the princess back on her rightful place on the shelf, Sheila took comfort in this muteness. At least she could confide in them without the fear of being judged and ridiculed. She could tell her dolls anything; even her views about the Republican Eisenhower running for the presidential election, and they wouldn't degrade her for it. Whenever her father went on his frequent trips to New York City, he would bring back – to Sheila's delight - a new doll, each one prettier and more ornate than the last. Every American girl sought after the dolls, molded from high-quality plastic. They were admired and envied by her friends, whom she swore often came over to simply marvel at them, perched neatly side by side on the shelves above Sheila's bed, all dressed in their individual, beautifully hand-crafted outfits. Her favourite was Cissy, a 20" tall girl whom her father had purchased several interchangeable outfits for. Today, Cissy had been dressed in a fashionable white nylon blouse with lace-trimmed collar and cuffs and a polka dot skirt. She, like Sheila, was suitably (appropriately?) dressed for dinner, but would unfortunately not be allowed to accompany Sheila, much to her disappointment. She recalled the first time she had been invited to join her father's guests for dinner, at the tender age of six. Her father had just returned from New York that morning and had presented Sheila with her first Madame Alexander doll. That evening, she had skipped into the dining hall with her precious collectible proudly clutched in her arms, only to be met by her mother's disapproving gaze. Ushered into the family's living area, Sheila had received a lecture which she had only partially understood; something along the lines of "behaving like a lady" and that "ladies never brought dolls down to dinner when daddy had guests". After that, the girl had begrudgingly left her dolls in the darkness of her bedroom, hidden away from view, much to her sadness. What was the point of having pretty dolls when you couldn't show anyone? At dinner, she continued to comply with her parents' rules: wear her best dresses, don't interrupt when her parents were speaking to their guests, no elbows on the table and, of course, strictly no dolls, but joined them with great reluctance.

* * *

And she still didn't care for them now, two years later, but for different reasons. Her mature and knowledgeable input in their conversations stunned her father's guests. Most of the time, the men would shrug it off with a laugh and say "That's one firecracker you've got there, John!" It irritated Sheila that no one really took her contributions, as accurate and true as they were, seriously. It irritated her that the voice of an eight-year-old girl could not be listened to full stop. She watched the news, she knew all about current affairs and she knew well of freedom of speech and expression. It just seemed that she hadn't been born into a society that believed in it. Little did she know then, that her eighteen- year-old self would fall into the company of people who shared the same views.

However, this ignorance made Sheila grow into an outspoken, opinionative teenager with strong political interests. At sixteen, all her childhood innocence was stripped away, consumed by the actions of her rebellious peers. One night she had snuck out after curfew to join a political riot on H Street with her friends, only to be escorted home by police hours later, leading to a fine disciplining from her parents. For weeks, the housemaid was able to indulge herself, for Sheila was forced to do the housework as punishment for her reckless actions and stupidity. Nevertheless, this did not staunch her rebellious streak. What might have, on appearance, been innocent sleepovers with the respectable girls, Patti Delmonte, Lucille Pavarotti and Sophia Covington, were really opportunities to experiment with pot and cocaine. Little did their high-class parents realise that their over-indulged, prissy daughters were tarnishing their reputation. However, in despite of the company that she associated herself with and the lavish lifestyle her family led, Sheila did not adopt a smug and snobby attitude and had firm aspirations.

As her eighteenth birthday approached, Sheila made the decision to break away from the luxuries and comfort of home in Washington D.C and enrolled at New York University with the intention of studying politics. When not attending lectures, she would be voicing her opinions in peaceful protests around the city. It was after one of these protests, as she began her walk home, that she spontaneously took a detour through Central Park; a decision that would shape her life for years to come in the most unexpected of ways.

"Woah! Hey, you!"

As Sheila turned to find the owner of the voice, she met the face of a scraggly, scruffy boy, not much older than she.

"Yeah, you! You're the senator's daughter, right?"

Confused as to how this stranger knew this piece of information, which she had strived to keep quiet about in New York, having wanted to start afresh with the advantage of nobody knowing her or her background, being easy to slip into a crowd and be unrecognisable, Sheila stopped in her tracks.

"And what if I did happen to be?" she pursued carefully.

The youth shoved a torn, well-used copy of The New York Times into her face, a black and white photograph of her parents and Sheila opening a museum in New York just the week before. As she had entered her teenage years, Sheila had been seen as mature enough to have the privilege to accompany her mother and father at numerous public events.

"No point in denying it. I'd say you two look pretty identical,"

Displeased with this stranger for bringing the fact her face was very much in the public domain, Sheila frowned.

"What's it to you anyway?"

"Nothing," the man shrugged nonchalantly, "Only that you'd be quite a valued member of our Tribe,"

Sheila took the opportunity to take the man in. He was tall and lean, a mass of dark brown hair flowed past his shoulders, tangled and untamed like a lion's mane. His brown eyes shone with curiosity and she could see a hint of warmth beneath it; a glimmer of happiness. Strangely, for a man with such a disheveled appearance, she also saw sincere kindness in his facial features, an unusual serenity.

"Tribe?"

At the question, the man erupted into laughter. Sheila shot him a disapproving glare, which immediately made him regain his composure with a cough.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't help myself. I just thought, with you being an upper-class girl, that you'd be well educated and all…"

A sharp jab hit him in the stomach and knocked the wind out of him. As he recovered, spluttering and snorting with laughter, he noticed Sheila turn on her heel to leave. He stumbled behind her and caught her wrist.

"Hey, wait!"

As Sheila spun around, her mouth full of ammo, prepared to give him abuse, she soften. His face was no longer full of joking, but was now serious and full of genuine remorse.

"I'm sorry, I have no right to say anything like that about you. Heck, I don't even really know you. Look," he gently maneuvered Sheila so that she was facing in the direction on the pond. "My friends and I gather over there almost every day. We're just a group of people who believe in peace, love and a load of happiness,"

He turned back to face her and looked her directly in the eye.

"All I'm saying is that I think you'd be well suited there. You'd be most welcome to join us. You seem strong-willed, opinionated, a girl that longs for leadership and strives for freedom…"

As he spoke in his gentle tone, Sheila felt her anger rapidly thaw. For that moment, she felt like somebody finally understood her and wanted the very same as she. She had longed for someone like this stranger all of her childhood and finally, it seemed she had stumbled upon that person.

"Anyway, I should be letting you go,"

Before she could conjure up words to say, the man began to slowly rear up, moving back towards the pond, presumably to the group of friends he had just mentioned. When Sheila smiled, he returned it with a grin. She stood and watched him walk away, before he suddenly spun around.

"Oh, I almost forgot, the name's Berger!" he cried.

"Sheila, although you probably already knew that!" she found herself replying.

At that, she continued on her way home, thinking all of the time about the Tribe.


	2. Suzannah

**Title:** Beads, Flowers, Freedom, Happiness

**Fandom:** 2009 revival of Hair, the musical

**Rating:** PG-13, for angst

**Word Count:** 1,393

**Author Note: I had this idea for Suzannah a while back, since I took a liking to Megan Reinking in the musical. However, I wanted each Tribe members' backgrounds to be different and contrasting, so let's just say she certainly has one of the most unpleasant upbringings. As usual, please feel free to read and review.  
**

**1953**

The night air was cruel and harsh; an icy bite that gnawed the skin down to the bone. Rain lashed down from the bleak sky like a thousand darts, streaming down the windows of hushed houses and flowing down the streets. The only sound the scurrying feet of a single girl, dressed in a dark long coat braced against the chill, her hood drawn up against the elements and to conceal her face. With every step, hurriedly splashing through deep puddles, her pace grew quicker as she gasped for breath, but she never slowed to recover. She couldn't afford to stop, not even for a moment. As the child passed beneath a streetlight, the beam of light momentarily pooled over her features. Her pale face, barely visible, was streaked with tears and it was evident that her plain black shoes were worn down, with holes at the toes. Finally, to the girl's relief, she reached a familiar red door and furiously chapped until the door opened and she stumbled inside.

"I'm sorry, Mrs Berkley! I'm sorry it's so late but…but I had to get away!" she blurted out, sobbing uncontrollably.

Immediately, the woman who had responded to the urgent knocks proceeded to peel off the girl's drenched coat and ushered her into the kitchen. As she flicked on the light, she couldn't help but gasp. Although she had seen them before on numerous occasions, it didn't make them any less shocking. Ugly, garish clouds in various hues of black, blue and purple covered the child's arms and legs. With her distinguishable curly red hair and forget-me-not eyes, she was a pretty young creature but, unfortunately, in her parents' trade this was not a beneficial feature. Bianca Berkley knew the child well: an eight-year-old who had become an innocent victim, forged into a life so twisted and horrifying that it made her heart wrench terribly whenever she set eyes upon her. A child whose monstrous parents corrupted her innocence and soul. On many occasions she had pleaded with the girl to stay, but she always insisted that she go. She always obeyed her parents' demands, regardless of what they involved and what the consequences would be for her. Bianca was powerless; the child would be punished and reprimanded in the sickest of fashions if she refused to agree to their tasks, heaven knows she'd be beaten to death if she reported the business to the cops or tried to take the girl away. Softly hushing her as she continued to sob and hiccup, Mrs Berkley began to gently wipe away the tears cascading down from those sorrowful eyes. Eyes that had seen too many unspeakable horrors. Just then, a small figure appeared, clutching a white teddy bear and froze in the kitchen doorway, blinking to adjust to the startling light. Her brown eyes grew wide as she noticed the bruises on the other girl's skin.

"Mummy, why is Suzie covered in bruises? Did she fall down the steps to the station again?"

Olivia Berkely was Bianca's only child and, at the tender age of five, was old enough to understand when someone was hurt, but too young to comprehend the full picture.

Suzie brashly wiped away her tears and forced a brave smile.

"Yes, Livvy, I fell again. I'm so clumsy!"

Bianca turned calmly to face her daughter, disguising the serious of the situation with a gentle smile.

"Go and fetch Suzannah your extra pair of pyjamas. She'll be sleeping over tonight,"

The young girl's face immediately brightened at the mention of the other girl staying over and rushed upstairs.

Turning her attention to Suzannah once more, she knelt down to her level and drew her into a warm, comforting hug. As she did so, she felt the girl flinch at the contact. Bianca couldn't bear to think what she had been through tonight. It seemed each story was worse than the last. Leading the child into the bathroom, she filled the bath was warm water and helped Suzannah strip off her filthy, threadbare dress, revealing further bruises and, more disturbingly, angry, deep cuts lacing up and down her back. Scrubbing the grime gently proved difficult, as the girl frequently winced, from the pain or the contact, or even both., Bianca did not know. As Suzannah slipped on Olivia's fresh, clean pyjamas, she hugged herself, savouring the little time she would spend in the soft garments. She could feel herself begin to relax, the tension slowly ebbing away. Yet, there was a slight feeling of unease rolling around in her stomach; a constant reminder that this time was precious and would all be gone by tomorrow morning. When she joined Bianca back downstairs, she found the sofa had been prepared with two blankets and a pillow, the wood fire in the far corner lit to provide warmth.

"You can have this, Suzie,"

The girl startled and turned to face Olivia, who was holding out her favourite white teddy bear. As she gratefully took the toy, her cheerful façade crumbled and the tears began to prick her eyes once more. In truth, Suzannah's life hadn't always been one of great woe. She still deeply cherished the memories of her earlier years, years that were filled with laughter and honest smiles. She could see her three-year-old self riding the precious wooden rocking horse her father had purchased for her birthday from a local wood carver from the little money they had. Those times when her mother had taken her to the park, where they had played on the swing set, the slide, the seesaw and she had proudly showed off Suzannah as the other mother's cooed and fussed over her. It was these snippets of happiness that kept her strong, kept her going through all the torture, praying each day that her parents would stop and realise the hurt they had caused, would stop and apologise and hug her and they could go back to the way they were before. Before the drugs. Before the abuse. Before their greed for money.

Olivia hugged the girl as her mother returned with the plate of cookies and a glass of milk.

"Thank you, Bianca. Thank you for everything,"

* * *

**1964**

It had been ten years. Ten long years since she had seen or heard of Suzannah. That last day that she had heard news of the child from Mr Farrell, the local farmer, still haunted her. He had been alerted of the girl, discarded and broken like a rag doll, behind his stock of hay bales by the incessant barks of his sheep dog. She had been so terribly frail; bloodied and battered, left for dead after what appeared to have been a ferocious attack on the defenseless girl. Whoever had inflicted these appalling injuries upon her had had the intention of killing and Bianca already knew that her suspicions would be correct. Her parents had been so deeply consumed and corrupted by their desperate need for money that they had been willing to use and abuse their daughter by all means to get it. The hospital reported a fractured skull, a fractured wrist and arm, four broken ribs and concussion, amongst the major injuries. However, three weeks into her treatment, the child, rendered mute from her ordeal, disappeared with a woman claiming to be her aunt and she was whisked away, never to be heard of again.

Then, Bianca heard a strange clunk that echoed throughout the house. It took her a moment to realise a single white envelope had been slotted through the letterbox and now lay on the doormat below. Picking it up and turning it in her hand, Bianca was puzzled. She very rarely received mail. Within seconds, she had torn open the envelope to reveal a neatly handwritten letter of considerable length. A letter that she would cherish for the rest of her life:

Dear Bianca,

I'm sorry it has taken me so long to get in touch, but until now I haven't really been able to write down what I have wanted to say for so long. I realise you have probably been worried sick about me, perhaps assumed me dead, and you deserve an explanation after all the kindness you showed me.

My mother, if I could even call her that, provided a emotional plea for me after reporting me missing to the police. When she was informed that I had been admitted to the hospital, she had played the sadly convincing role of a relieved parent and had me discharged. I was helpless, for even months later, I could not utter a single word. Then, one night, I devised a plan to run away and since then, I have never looked back.

Strangely, my experiences as a child have made me stronger as a person, inside and out. I have seen first-hand how the world can be a cruel and horrible place and now I strive to make my life more positive and happier and to make others feel that happiness too. I learnt how to pick up the pieces of my previous life and reconstruct them to one which I am more satisfied with.

For years I lived rough on the streets of New York but recently I have become friends with a group of hippies who believe in nothing but peace and happiness: the two things I have craved for as long as I can remember! They are kind, understanding, and remind me how lucky I am to have had your compassion in those times of darkness. You were the one who kept me fighting and I owe everything to you.

As much as I wish I could, I can never risk returning. However, know that I will always remember you and Livvy and forever appreciate everything you did for me as a child. I hope this letter finds you both in good health and that God keeps you safe.

Love,

Suzannah


	3. Jeanie

**Author's Note: This chapter pretty much wrote itself. I was rather surprised by how the words just flowed with this installment. This one is told from Jeanie's mum's perspective.**

Jeanie had been an unexpected gift. Seeing her now, not long turned seventeen, and looking back to her growing up with a rebellious streak and being occasionally disrespectful, I as a mother had to wonder if unplanned babies were born feeling slightly less loved. In her mind, she probably saw herself, and perhaps still does see herself, as unintended, unwanted and, with the knowledge that abortion was illegal, was it possible that our precious Jeanie felt that she had been thrust upon us; a burden? Nevertheless, Jim and I loved our daughter unconditionally and almost completely forgot that we had not initially planned for parenthood. With her unruly mane of blonde curls, brown eyes that would often twinkle with light-hearted mischief, and endearing smile, Jeanie won us all over.

Although money was an issue, we strived to provide her with the best we could. As a child, she was mischievous, curious and adventurous. Most days, she chose to play in the yard and I could often predict where she would be. Perched up the apple tree with her stuffed toy comrades, her father's binoculars around her neck, spying on the "enemy" next door, the "enemy" being a boy who, she claimed, once put insects down her dress at school. Or, to my horror, fearlessly performing acrobatics from her swing set.

These traits only heightened as she grew older. As a teenager, she was feisty, outspoken and, if only a little, eccentric. There were occasions when Jim lost his temper at her attitude and I saw another side of her that I couldn't possibly imagine there existing. Jeanie hated making people angry and having people being angry at her and when it happened she would retreat to her room, curl up into a protective ball and shun out the world, as if forcing herself to think about what she had done. It became clear that she cared a lot about people's feelings and if she made people angry she would dwell on it for a long time, as if trying to analyse the events leading up to the dispute and trying to memorise the solution and how to prevent it from reoccurring. I hated seeing her that way, as I saw it as a sign of insecurity; a lack of confidence. A withdrawn, sullen child that, the majority of the time, was contagiously happy.

But underneath it all, Jeanie was sweet natured and kindred, loving and affectionate, if not sometimes distant. My daughter made me realise that, not only was there far more to a person than perhaps met the eye, but that there were many layers to their personalities, some of which, like Jeanie's reaction to direct anger, were only triggered by a particular occurrence.

But now, at seventeen, and fast approaching adulthood, that had all changed. Although the majority of Jeanie's personality remained intact, her newfound friendship with a group of hippies had given her a strange confidence that seemed to have stripped away that insecurity. Jim started a row with her just a few days past after she broke her curfew. To my surprise, as his voice got louder and more aggravated, she did not shrink away. Instead, she stood tall and robust, as if the words simply bounced off of her, and nonchalantly responded with a simple remark.

Her father had stood, gobsmacked. Suddenly, it seemed he had run out of ammunition. After a few moments of being frozen to the spot, simply staring at his daughter in utter disbelief, he had straightened up, recovered his stern expression and, in his usual authoritative tone, stated that he did not want it happening again, before retiring to the lounge. But that wasn't the only challenge Jeanie presented.

Like so many other parents, I suspected my girl was tampering and experimenting with drugs, but I had never really confronted her about it. It was like a taboo. I felt if I brought it up, it would be like an admission that I had failed in my role as a mother; to protect my child from the world's cruel ways, whether it be substances, violence or crime.

Last night, Jim noticed that our daughter had once again broken her curfew. He is exceptionally strict when it comes to her timekeeping and he had watched the kitchen clock in anticipation, until the clock struck 10PM exactly. He immediately grabbed his coat and stormed out to Central Park, where he easily found the group of hippies that Jeanie associated herself with. I struggled to keep up with him as he strode along, on the warpath, desperately wanting to stop him. The group fell eerily silent as he approached. It was the first time that I got a proper look at them all. There were girls there, most around the same age as Jeanie, some perhaps a year or so younger. Their faces were still youthful, rosy cheeked and . There were boys too. They were all somebody's daughters, somebody's sons. It struck me that they were simply drinking and smoking pot to relax and enjoy each other's company. It brought them together, along with their interests and beliefs, which Jeanie had only briefly mentioned. It wasn't with the sole objective to get ridiculously high that they passed out or drink themselves to oblivion. After all, none of the teenagers in front of me looked really intoxicated or stoned. In fact, they all looked rather cheerful until now.

Although the group had frozen and all eyes were on Jim, Jeanie had her back to him in defiance. She was tense, biting her lip, braced for his race. To my horror, I watched as he gripped her arm and forced her around to face him. But her eyes weren't filled with fear of the consequences of her actions, of her rebellion. There was that strange confidence again, the same one that appeared a few night's before. The mixture of pot and alcohol in her system was giving her an edge.

"Did I not make myself clear the other night?" Jim bellowed.

Jeanie hesitated before replying, as if she was carefully contemplating her response.

"You didn't actually state what the consequence would be, so not really." She said, nonchalantly, shrugging her shoulders.

It happened so fast that I didn't have time to react. It wasn't until I heard the crack of impact, the gasps from some of the group and see Jeanie recoil with an angry streak burning on her cheek, that I understood what had happened. I instinctively wanted to protect her from further harm.

"Jim!" I tugged his arm, trying to coax him away. "Let her be!"

But, he tore away from me and stormed towards his daughter once more. This time, Jeanie wasn't so brazen.

"You are a disgrace! An utter, bloody disgrace! "

Early this morning, after several restless hours in bed lying awake and worrying, I heard the familiar click of the lock and the creak of the front door. I lay still, listening to the footsteps deftly padding up the stairs and waited for Jeanie's bedroom door to close. The deep snores from Jim were conformation enough for me that he was fast asleep, and so I slipped out of bed and lightly tapped on the adjacent door. When I got no response, I gingerly opened the door a crack.

"It's ok, mom…" I heard Jeanie mumble, with a sigh of resignation. "You can come in."

She was sulking on her bed, curled up in that protective ball. In that moment, she looked like a vulnerable child again. I sat down softly beside her and let the silence settle between us for a few moments. As I gazed around my daughter's bedroom, whilst thinking of what to say, I realised that it had been a long time since I had last been in here.

Finally, I put a gentle hand on her knee.

"Your father was wrong for doing what he did today," I brushed a tendril of blonde hair away from her eyes, and half expected a swipe, but she didn't react. "He should never have hit you."

She lifted her eyes.

"I know you both think that my friends are a bad influence, but they're not. I chose to join them. They understand me. They believe in free speech, peace, equality…"

At that point, she looked me straight in the eyes.

"And I do, too."

It never occurred to me that Jeanie had views and opinions that she had been too frightened to speak about with us. War, riots. sexual orientation. As devout Catholics, these topics were simply not discussed. These hippies, the group that she was now a part of, was her outlet. She'd felt suffocated in these four walls, having to suppress her sentiments and being too scared to raise her voice. To be heard.

I gazed out of the window, taking it all in.

"Are you mad?" Jeanie mumbled, her hands knotted together in her lap.

How could I be mad at my daughter for simply being human? I couldn't thrust religion on her, nor could I ever stop her from forming her own opinions and beliefs. It made her the unique individual that she was, and I loved that person. At that, I drew her into a warm hug.

"Of course not, Jeanie. I'll love you no matter what."

It took me a few moments to finally pull away. I wanted to savour the closeness I felt towards her in that moment. Finally, I smiled to give her some reassurance and got up to my feet to leave. As I reached the door, Jeanie spoke up.

"Mom?"

The tremor in her voice made me turn around and face her again. Her eyes told me that she somehow felt she could entrust me with a secret; a desperation to relieve some burden she had bottled up. But I stupidly hesitated as I took my daughter in, and the moment was gone.

"I love you too," she said, forcing a weak smile.

As I left and closed the door behind me, I sighed, wanting to kick myself. There was something Jeanie had wanted to tell me and I'd let the opportunity slip away. Deftly climbing back into bed beside Jim, I lay awake with the horrible ache of regret and worry in my stomach. My daughter had wanted to confide in me and I feared it may have held serious consequences.

Now, I may never know until it was too late.


End file.
